Whole
by TheNightRunner
Summary: He sits there every night, waiting. Just as he has for the last seven years, with a single rose in hand. Who is he, and what is he waiting for? {One-Shot, may be the intro to a love story if I get enough positive reviews}
He sat on the bench, a single light from a lamp post off to the side the only thing to illuminate the dark world around him. He sat quiet, still, his eyes to the paved walk-way below him. This park considered a pretty place in the daylight, when kids would play and couples in sweet love would simply enjoy their time together.

But now, in the silence of the night, it only seemed lonely.

His hands were clasped in his lap, his shoulders slumped, his crystal blue eyes tired. No, not tired; defeated.

This was the same man that had come and sat at that exact bench for the last seven years, night after night, week after week, month after month. He never missed, not even in the dead of winter when snow had kept every other living soul with a place to go inside.

I often slept at the edges of that park, being a homeless with no better place to go. Of course I couldn't help but notice him over there. I never managed to witness a change in the routine: He would arrive at 2 AM sharp, and would not under any circumstances leave any sooner than 5 AM. He was always dressed nice with his dark hair combed neatly away from his face, like a man would dress if he were going to meet his girl. And there was always a rose tucked in his vesture.

Each morning when he left, which was never any later than dawn, he would leave this rose behind on the bench. I couldn't help myself but to go take a look at it each time after he was out of sight. It was always fresh cut, always with the thorns scraped off carefully. A rose without blemish.

Yet a lot has changed since the first time I saw him seven years ago.

The first time I saw him he wasn't sitting at the bench; he was pacing in front of it. Troubled, anxious, worried. He would fidget for hours without break.

This carried on for nearly a year, with him looking more and more tired each month. That's when he took the next step down the road. Finally paced to exhaustion, he lowered himself down to the bench. Yet he would continue to fidget uneasily for a long time yet, casting his gaze this way and that with anticipation.

Yes, he was waiting for something. That much was apparent. But exactly what, or who, he was waiting for, that remained a mystery.

It was not until the third year that the man's angst seemed to slowly wear away. All that was left was a look of desperation in his face. It was a look that I imagine could make the hardest man take a pause and shake his head with pity. It was the expression of a man who was fighting to hold on to his last ray of hope.

I did not realize until later just how accurate that judgment had been. It was not until the fifth year came around that I finally realized I was witnessing a man slowly die.

Looking at him now, he was so pale. He didn't used to be like that. He had once been tall, with strong posture and a bold look about him. Almost as if he were more than a mere man, instead a mighty being of higher order.

But now... He was weary and dejected, with dark circles under eyes lost in thought. The strength that had once filled his features were replaced with a blank hopelessness. Yet he continued to come.

How long would this go on? It seemed to me like he no longer had any expectation for the future. This was now simply a part of his life, like blinking or breathing.

I'd never talked to him. Yet after seeing him so much all these years I somehow felt like I knew him, though I doubt as to whether he ever noticed me.

As I watched him, he took out the fresh red rose that he had with him and started turning it over into his hands. He raised it to his face, running the velvet petals over his lips. And for the first time in years, I saw a real spark of emotion come over his face.

Longing.

Passionate, painful, broken.

I think something must have snapped inside him at that moment, because he slowly straightened out his posture once more and closed his eyes. I wasn't close enough to truly see for myself, but somehow I know that there must have been tears running down his cheeks. He clutched the stem of the rose tightly in his hand, and I squinted to see better when I saw something start dripping down from it.

What was it?

At this point, I was torn between leaving and staying. Despair seemed to radiate from the mournful man, penetrating everything around him and weighing heavily upon me as well. It was nearly unbearable.

Yet something seemed to beckon me stay, maybe curiosity, maybe something else. And so stay I did.

I watched him. For hours I did so, and he remained unmoved. When the sun started peeking over the horizon, he still did not move. Birds started singing their sweet songs, it was not until then that his eyes finally opened again.

But he still did not move.

I don't know what made me do it. An overwhelming compassion seemed to come over me from no where, and before I knew it I was pushing myself to my feet, and slowly making my way toward him. He didn't acknowledge me as I came up, nor as I stopped next his bench. Not even when I sat down next to him. Now I could see what had been dripping from the stem of his rose. It was his own blood, spilled from his hands by punctures from thorns. It was spilled on his lap and the grass below, now dried.

It was a long time before I could finally bring myself to speak to him.

"Are you alright?" I finally spoke, my voice low. Why he would elect to speak to a total stranger was beyond me, and honestly I didn't expect him to. That's why I was surprised when he slowly turned his face to me.

I had never seen him close up before, so when his eyes met mine I was shocked to find what could only be described as devastation in them.

His head briefly shook, just barely visibly. "No," he whispered.

It took me several moments to gather my bearings again as I searched for more words. Finally, the question that I had wondered in my heart for so long came out.

"Who are you?"

His mind seemed to pause, before he turned to face forward again, lowering his eyes back to the ground.

"Half a man."

We sat silently together. Early morning joggers started to show themselves, but still he made no move to get up.

"Why do you do this?"

I do not elaborate. I know he knows what I mean. _Why do you sit out here, night after night? Why the rose? Why?_

His lip part, but it is several more beats before he comes to form the words.

"I'm waiting for the rest of me to return."

It's hard for me to grasp, a man waiting like this for seven long years. I was married once, but even before the fire burned out for us, I don't think I could have done this.

"How do you know it will come?" I can't help but sound a little doubtful. And I would have thought he would've understood this. But to my surprise, he turned to me with a fire lit in his eyes.

"I don't." His voice was firm, but sure, something which was astonishing under the circumstances and his condition. "But she promised me she would try, and I believe her."

We hold gazes, until I eventually find myself nodding in acceptance.

"How long with you wait?" I watch his face as he settles back down.

He faces ahead now, but I think I can see that old determination growing again inside him.

I don't know how long it was before he answered me. Time just seemed to lose it's meaning. But when he did answer me, I knew that he meant it.

"Until she returns to me."


End file.
